My Favorite Place: Childhood

My grandma's house is flat, safe, and predictable. There's always cookies, or bars, or pie, less than three days old. There's the rumble of my grandpa's deep, slow voice, unless you hear him snoring away in his favorite reclining chair.

When we arrive, and when we leave, my grandma's hugs always feel the same, always smell the same, and she always says the same kinds of things: "You guys be careful driving home, now!" or "D'you think you could take this trash out with you? If it's no trouble, I mean..."

The yard and the town are the same every time we visit, with slight adjustments made with changes in the season. Snow is always white and untouched before our arrival, and full of footprints and muck by the time we leave. In the summer, dandelions litter every yard within view, no matter how well cared for the lawn might be.

There's always something going on, usually instigated by my grandma. She rarely sits, flitting about like a hummingbird in a box. She rushes from room to room, maknig sure everyone is comfortable. My mom always tells her to take it easy, but this regularly backfires.

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